


coming with the customers

by scioscribe



Category: House of Games (1987)
Genre: Con Artists, Dubious Consent, F/M, Misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 19:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16938918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe
Summary: She’s the one who liked the taste of the fishhook so much she didn’t want to spit it out of her mouth.





	coming with the customers

At the start he would have been happy taking her for the six grand. She’s the one who liked the taste of the fishhook so much she didn’t want to spit it out of her mouth.

The hotel room stinks of furniture polish. The broad gets excited when he lays her down on the rumpled bed, her bare ass against some stranger’s sheets. (She thinks. He rumpled the bed for her. Like foreplay, his hands stroking wrinkles into what some manager would swear up and down is Egyptian cotton.) Her cunt’s as sleekly plain as the rest of her, the same uniform pink as a paint sample. She lifts her chin when he fucks her, like she’s proud.

He could say this is part of the job— _I give you my confidence_ —but he does want her. He wants to leave a mark: some soreness between her legs or a purpling bruise on her hip. He gets all concrete like that sometimes.

She makes these gasping little noises in the back of her throat when she’s on the edge. He runs his hands up and down her legs and they’re strong and hot and quivery, like he’s fucking a racehorse. The sweat on her is pearlescent with lotion, that’s how smooth she made herself for him, how tempting it is to swallow her whole. He didn’t ask for her obsession.

He’s a professional. Desperate people get unpredictable, so he never takes anyone for more than they can afford to lose. After he’s gone with the eighty grand, she’ll still have her pretty, dull-as-dirt life to go back to.

And maybe, he thinks, rubbing against the swollen nub of her clit, she’ll have learned an important lesson, she’ll have lost some of that apple blossom innocence that, frankly, offends him. Though hoping for that—it’s a bad play. All these years, he’s never gotten personal. But he’s let the bitch get inside his head and she’s gone around they do, making a fucking mess while they claim they’re tidying up. She got him thinking about how to hurt her.

God help him, he’s become the kind of guy who wants to prove a point: _This isn’t a game. It never has been. You think you can just walk into my life and understand it? You think you’re special?_

Eighty thousand dollars and she stays on her own side of town. Good little girls get their fingers burned trying to grab action that’s too hot for them.

Let her put _this_ in her book.


End file.
